The Missing Ingredient
by PoisoningPigeonsinthePark
Summary: When two wacktastic villains need to sacrifice a male virgin to complete their potion who do they come looking for? Prince Arthur. Will Merlin and Gwen be able to rescue Arthur, and his ego, in time? Not slash and not intended to be taken too seriously.
1. It Was a Dark and Stormy Night

**A/N: Hello! I must begin this by telling you that I cannot take credit for the basic outline of this story. Kitty O messaged it to me. We both agree that, since it's never actually been mentioned in the show that Arthur sleeps around a lot (although everyone assumes he does) it's time someone took a different approach... Also, it's the perfect opportunity to bruise Arthur's ego. Enough said. This chapter's kind of an introduction to the story, just to see what people make of it... If you like it, review and I'll keep going with it! If you don't like it, well... that makes me sad but you're free to have your own opinions. I'd especially like to know what people make of the characters in this chapter - because it's my first (semi-)serious attempt at OCs. **

It was a horribly clichéd dark and stormy night.

The rain was falling in great, greasy clomps that splattered on the ground and mutated instantly into sullen, murky puddles.

The wind was groaning and grumbling as it twisted its way around the forest, bending the trunks of trees to its will, forcing them to dance and tremble as it slithered through their branches, knotting its fingers in their leaves.

The thunder was stomping along sulkily in the distance like a petulant child, its heavy footsteps causing the tired ground around to shake in its wake.

No one could sleep at all.

Not a wink.

The endless whistling, waning and howling; the constant disruptive flashes of brightness as lightening carved its path across the tar-like pool of the sky; the thick, sweaty stench in the air that came - unquestionably, hand-in-hand - with torrential rain.

Of course, some people weren't trying to sleep.

Some people were busy concocting evil plans.

A single, slippery, lonely cave sat by itself; like the calm directly in the middle of the storm that raged relentlessly all around.

Inside this cave were two men, so busy plotting and scheming that the rumble of the thunder and the shrieks of the lightening were of minimal concern to them.

The first man, clearly the leader of the two, was the one to whom the eye was immediately drawn. He stood taller, walked firmer, and talked far more authoritatively. His long, hooked nose poked out over his thin, grimacing lips; an endless, blank forehead stretched up above his raised eyebrows into the wilderness of his straggly hair; and his shrewd, rat-like eyes seemed to bore analytically into every crevice of his surroundings, with an air of arrogance that suggested they found nothing around them comparable with _him_.

His self-confidence was hardly surprising, since his companion was so painfully inferior. He was short, squat and strongly resembled a door stop. The stench of cabbages clung to his thick, ragged skin, and his timid, squeaky voice seemed to cement the general appearance of a dogsbody.

"Strumpet!" the first man bellowed, his heavy voice hanging thickly in the air as the name echoed around the walls of the cave. "We shall begin on that potion! Where is the eye of newt I sent you for?"

Strumpet - for that was the shorter man's name - waddled towards his master. "It is here, Master… I have rubbed it in the open wound of a unicorn, as you instructed…"

Master nodded approvingly, and held his hand out to receive the small eyeball, which observed him anxiously as he licked his lips. "Excellent!"

With that, Master promptly swallowed the eye of newt, his favourite pre-potion-brewing-snack, and set about prepping his cauldron.

"Read the ingredients list to me, Strumpet. I may be the most intelligent being in all of Albion, but even I have my limitations… I can only do a certain number of things at once." Master paused, and seemed to be considering this. "Well… Actually… Perhaps I can… Perhaps I have no need of you, since I am so very brilliant…"

"Oh! Oh, no, Master… You would not want to be brilliant all the time, I think… It would be tiring… Perhaps I might help you with _some_thing?"

"Perhaps. But only if you are quick about it. Otherwise I might realise how brilliant I am, and decide I don't need you after all."

"Of course, Master!"

With that, Strumpet set about scurrying with vigour, and before long he had a withered spell book clutched in his paw-like hands.

"I cannot read in this dim light, Master…"

Master sighed. "Must I do everything?"

He did not appear to require an answer to this, as, before long, he shot his hand up in the direction of his assistant, and a reddish ball of light began to hover directly above the page.

"Oh, thank you, Master!"

"Yes… Well… What does it say?"

"A quart of dragon's blood, Master."

"Naturally," Master conceded, tipping a jar, roughly the size of a small piglet, that had been filled with thick, purple liquid, into his cauldron.

There was a pause as Strumpet tried to anticipate how long it might take Master to complete the task. "A handful of Sidhe brains…"

"Oh… Yes… I should have remembered that…"

"A dollop of wilderin saliva."

"But of course."

"Three and a half unicorn hooves."

"I should have some left over from dinner last night."

"Hair of spoilt princess."

"I have a little remaining from that horrible Vivian girl…"

"A headless chicken."

"What potion is complete without one?"

"A pint of mead."

"I should still have some from the last time the druids came over to celebrate the vernal equinox…"

"Two wicked witch's warts."

"Is that _two _warts from _one_ wicked witch, or _two _wicked witches, and _one_ wart from each?"

"Err…"

"Where's the apostrophe?"

"What's an 'apostrophe'?"

"A little squiggly line. Is it before or after the 's'?"

"Before."

"So it's just the one witch, then. Continue."

"It says to bring it to the boil, keep stirring, and then let it simmer for five minutes."

"Alright then."

They peered into the cauldron as gloopy, grey bubbles slowly drifted to the surface, waiting and watching as the bubbles eventually bubbled with slightly more frequency.

"Is it simmering now?"

"Be quiet, Strumpet! I am trying to concentrate!" Master leaned right over the mixture, ignoring the stray rat skull that was bobbing along the surface, and inhaled deeply. "I think that it is simmering now."

"Oh." An awkward pause sat stiffly in between them for a full five minutes, as Strumpet contemplated whether or not it would be a good idea to propose whistling as a way of passing the time. He decided against it.

"The mixture is ready now!" Master suddenly announced with extreme authority. "Is there a final ingredient?"

"Um… Yes… It says we must sacrifice a virgin."

"Oh. Splendid. I'll go and fetch one from the storage cupboard. Shan't be a minute. Does it specify size…? Or hair colour? I've got quite a few in stock…"

Strumpet gulped. He knew he had to tell Master what it said, he knew… He just really, really didn't want to. "Master… It says… It says… A _male_ virgin."

"What?"

"It says… a _male_ virgin, master."

Master stopped.

In that pause, Strumpet saw his life flash before his eyes. He saw his simple childhood, raised by a kind, plump, peasant mother. He saw his adolescence - a flurry of acne, hair in unwelcome places and an endless string of rejections from the fairer sex. He saw that day when he realised his place in life; his place as a shadow behind a greater, cleverer, scarier man who could shield him from the rest of the greater, cleverer, scarier world.

And now that man was going to kill him.

All because of a stupid book.

Strumpet had never, in his life, hated books more than right then, in that pause.

Master's boots clomped down on the floor as he stormed closer, angry fists raised: ready to strike.

And then there was a laugh.

"Oh Strumpet!"

And then there was ruffling of hair.

"You really are such a fool!"

And then Strumpet wasn't dead; he was very, very much alive. He was nodding and smiling and agreeing to anything and everything Master said. Just as long as Master wasn't furious.

"I would get so bored in this cave on my own, without you!" Master shook his head, and lifted the book effortlessly from Strumpet's baffled hands. "A male virgin… Whoever heard of such a thing? I suppose I shall have to give you some more reading lessons…"

And then there was the moment Strumpet had been dreading.

The laugh died.

It shrivelled up and died, right there, on Master's tongue. It dropped clean off his face. It was washed straight out of his grey eyes, leaving them chilly and unreadable.

Because Master saw it too.

"A male virgin…?" he repeated wondrously. "Whoever heard of such a thing?"

Master slammed the book shut, tucked it under his leather-clad arm, and receded into the darkness at the back of the cave.

Then Master returned, with the crystal of answers.

The crystal that Master said could tell you anything. That was why Master said you normally shouldn't ask.

More of the words, the strange words that meant nothing to Strumpet and everything to Master, and then a face stretched itself onto the crystal, and gazed up at them.

A young, handsome, chiselled face; with a muss of blonde hair trickling down from on top of it and noble blue eyes staring out from it.

"Prince Arthur Pendragon," Master muttered, chuckling over his own words. "It has been a long time since I paid you a visit…"


	2. It Was Still a Dark and Stormy Night

**A/N: I'm sorry if it has taken longer than you would like for me to stick this up here, but I can absolutely promise that I know where this story is going and the next update will be sooner than the last! Thanks for all of your reviews last chapter :)**

The gritty, gruesome, grisly storm spread across Albion, smothering it; choking the dimly sparkling stars, blotting out the sky like dregs of tea swiped from the bottom of a cup and smeared across the heavens.

Whistling winds curved down Camelot's streets, rattling windows and causing door-knockers to shiver.

Endless, disruptive flashes of lightening illuminated the dead city, silent but for the roar of thunder.

The Crown Prince of Camelot could not sleep.

He was wriggling and writhing in his bed; tossing his blankets off him, then rethinking his decision and wrapping them back around him; he buried his head deep into his plush pillow and let out a long, mournful moan.

The Crown Prince of Camelot could not sleep, and if he could not sleep, neither would his manservant.

Merlin - an awkward, lanky fellow with dark hair, light eyes and a personality his master considered offensively cheerful - rocked back and forth on his heels, allowing his head to loll about uselessly on his neck, glaring every so often at the fidgeting form of his master.

"Make it stop!" Arthur eventually whined from underneath his mountain of bedclothes.

Merlin clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth in an unnecessarily loud display of discontent. "I _can't_ make it stop; it's a storm. It might surprise you to know that I don't have that kind of power!"

If Arthur's head hadn't been firmly encased in his many cushions, he might have seen the slight smirk gracing his servant's lips as he lied.

Instead, Arthur simply muttered something derogatory about Merlin's capabilities into his bedding, and nestled in further at the shrieks of the lightening as it zigzagged across the sky.

Merlin coughed uncomfortably and yawned. "Sire, not that this isn't fun, but can I leave now?"

There was no response.

For one glorious moment, Merlin thought that Arthur had finally succumbed to sleep, and he would be able to sneak out unnoticed.

The disappointment on Merlin's face when Arthur responded was almost laughable.

"Where would you go?"

"I'm sorry, Sire?"

"Idiot…" Arthur muttered to himself, and Merlin watched the covers ripple as the prince shook his head in disbelief. "Where would you go, _Mer_lin? It's not as if you'd sleep better anywhere else in the castle…" his voice tailed off at that point, as if it itself realised it was wrong.

"That is it!" the prince exclaimed, tossing his covers aside and springing to his feet in a slightly demented, sleep-deprived manner. "Sometimes, Merlin, you astound me!" he pointed emphatically at his manservant, a disconcertingly broad grin smack in the middle of his face.

"That is _what_?"

"…but then I remember you're a complete and utter _idiot_!" Arthur announced, amassing royally red bedclothes in his arms.

Merlin frowned. In his opinion, it was not _him_ who was behaving like the idiot at that precise moment.

Arthur whirled right around on the spot, trailing a rather long, swishy blanket along behind him like a cape, and practically ran into his manservant in his haste to barrel out of the room, giving Merlin an eyeful of his unavoidably and unnecessarily bare chest, before strolling off down the corridor.

Merlin stood in the centre of the still, shadowy room, which appeared just as confused about what had happened as he did.

"Come on then!" Arthur Pendragon's jesting voice echoed down the dimly-lit corridor.

Merlin shrugged his angular shoulders at absolutely nothing in particular, and sauntered off after his master.

**.**

"Too big!" Arthur declared, sweeping out of the abandoned Council Room - which, admittedly, did appear as though its very insides had been scooped out without the hustle and bustle of the court to fill it - expecting Merlin to pick up the bedclothes he had dropped on the floor.

"Too small!" Arthur decreed with a regal flip of his fingers, before clambering awkwardly out of the linen cupboard, sticking his elbow in Merlin's eye in the process, and proving his point.

"Too hot!" Arthur squeaked, tenderly rubbing the hand he had leant on the stove - left on overnight for reasons known only to the cook.

Merlin rolled his eyes, stumbling off after Arthur and muttering something under his breath about getting out of the kitchen if you can't stand the heat.

His suggestion was not well-received.

"Too cold!"

Merlin's chattering teeth were all the response the manservant intended to provide, but privately he wondered what had possessed Arthur to try a kip in the dungeons in the first place.

Tripping over his own slightly over-sized feet as they became tangled in Arthur's precious blankets once again on his way back up the endless stairs, Merlin wondered if Arthur had only made the trip to have the pleasure of seeing his servant fall over.

Arthur's grin, present as he tossed his head over his shoulder to observe the befuddled bundle of blankets that was his manservant stumbling along after him, answered his question.

"Just right!" Arthur sighed, nestling into Merlin's bed, having tossed all of Merlin's bedclothes in an untidy heap on the floor.

Merlin considered turning his master into a toad at that point, as Arthur smirked into his pillow.

The warlock knew now that Arthur had intended all along to throw him out of his own bed, he just couldn't believe that he hadn't seen it coming.

"I can't hear a thing from here, Merlin!" Arthur exclaimed smugly. "It must be because you're so much further down the castle than me…"

Merlin huffed in response.

"'Night, Merlin!"

Merlin gathered up his bedding, and set about trying to get to sleep on the floor, occasionally taking breaks from this in order to scowl up at Arthur, who quickly began happily snoring away.

**.**

"How did you sleep?"

Merlin watched as his hands froze, submerged in a bucket of dirty laundry. He scowled at passing soap suds as they caught the faint light trickling in through the window, and glimmered irritatingly about his tired knuckles.

"Not so well…" Merlin kept his gaze resolutely on the scummy water lapping annoyingly at his hands, and resumed the arduous task of scrubbing the sweat out of Arthur's shirts.

Gwen sank to her knees and tilted her head, trying to encourage him to look at her practised sympathetic smile. She rested one hand on her hip, and slowly lifted the other to stroke the face he was still stubbornly averting.

She gently rolled her fingertips across the dark circles under his eyes.

"I hear Arthur didn't sleep too well either…" she probed.

That was the wrong thing to say.

"Is that what he's been telling people?" Merlin snapped, jumping to his feet and waving his angular arms about frantically. "Because he sure _sounded _like he was sleeping well last night! Either that or he snuck a pig into my room with him!"

The beginnings of a smirk began to wriggle onto Gwen's lips at Merlin's erratic display, only to be quashed by a frown. "What was Arthur doing in your room?"

"Making my life as difficult as possible, as usual!"

Gwen's frown deepened.

"The prat dragged me all over the castle trying to find somewhere quiet to sleep, before eventually deciding that he _had_ to kick me out of my bed!"

Gwen chewed on her lip thoughtfully, before suggesting, in a calm voice, "I'm sure Arthur wasn't _trying_ to 'make your life as difficult as possible'…"

"Oh yes… I forgot… You have _faith_ in Arthur, don't you? In _the man he is inside_?"

Gwen's cheeks flushed an incriminating shade of pink, "He _told_ you that?"

"Of course he did! Arthur and I have no secrets!" Merlin scoffed, and Gwen sensed there was something he wasn't telling her, but that she didn't really want to know.

And then they stopped.

Arthur's chambers suddenly seemed very small.

Merlin closed his eyes.

He ran a hand over his face, smoothing it out.

"I'm sorry."

He meant it, too.

Gwen smiled, and patted his arm.

**.**

Arthur was slap bang in the middle of a not particularly good day.

He hadn't got a wink of decent sleep in that rock solid, flea-infested bed of Merlin's; he'd been forced to spend his morning enduring hours of listening to Uther and the nobles' endless droning about the minutia of the borders of the lower town; and his grip had slipped in training, he'd dropped his sword causing him to collide painfully with the ground and Sir Leon's boots.

But all of this paled in comparison to the chatter he had overheard between some of his least favourite knights.

The words _"Guinevere"_, _"virtue"_, and _"arse" _had been enough to flood his face with redness, and send him stomping off to his room in search of Merlin to yell at.

What he saw when he got there did nothing to improve his mood.

"Step away from Guinevere!" he growled at his manservant, before proceeding to throw whatever he could find at Merlin's head.

Gwen felt the need to flee the room tugging away at her skirts, but her feet seemed to have other ideas, and kept her right where she was.

She could do nothing but stand out of the line of fire, observing with wide brown eyes as things progressively got more ridiculous.

Merlin took cover under Arthur's desk, ducking the shower of quills and pillows raining down upon his head.

"I cannot believe this!" Arthur bellowed.

Gwen shook her head, unable to speak, but trying to say that she felt the same.

"I order you to wash my shirts, and I find you in my bedchambers making advances towards _Guinevere_?"

Merlin tried to defend himself, but was bombarded by a flurry of projectiles.

"And what's more…" he turned to Gwen, flapping his hands about like a lunatic, "_you_ actually seemed to be _encouraging_ him!"

"I was not encouraging…"

"Enough! I will hear no more of this!" Arthur spat with venom. "You are servants, and you will do as I say! _Guinevere_, I suggest you go and find something _useful _to do, and stop distracting my worthless servant from his work; _Mer_lin, my stables need mucking out, my armour needs polishing, my chambers need cleaning, my boots need mending…" Arthur stormed out into the corridor, bellowing out orders at Merlin as he went.

**.**

Two strange, dark men were crouching in some bushes at the beginnings of the forest, staring intently at the entrance to Camelot.

"So… what's the plan?" Strumpet asked, shooting Master a nervous smile.

Master opened his mouth to speak, but found himself grinning as the very young man he had constructed an elaborate plan to kidnap came galumphing angrily towards them.

"Somehow, Strumpet, I suspect that we are not going to need one…"

Strumpet's brow creased, and he chewed his tongue, trying to understand whether or not Master was joking. If Master was joking, it would be best to laugh, not laughing might incur some sort of penalty; if Master wasn't joking, laughing would be the worst idea Strumpet had ever had.

Eventually, Strumpet followed Master's line of vision to the irate blonde prince tramping along towards them, and Strumpet realised he recognised him.

Strumpet observed the young man's toned physique and confident walk with confusion. "Master, are you sure we haven't made a mistake?"

Master, however, simply smiled knowingly and clobbered Strumpet over the back of the head.

**.**

Arthur stomped along sullenly, squashing every stray flower amidst the grass under his feet, muttering under his breath about ungrateful servants.

He came to a halt not far from two slightly large, green bushes, but paid little attention to them.

The prince ran a hand through his hair tiredly, and swayed on his feet ever so slightly, regretting his bad night's sleep more and more as the day wore on.

_He wasn't sorry for shouting at Merlin_, he decided quickly. _Not at all._

_But Guinevere…_

He groaned and swung his foot out, intending to kick the ground but actually kicking his own shin.

"Ow!"

_He couldn't believe what he'd said to her…_

Arthur shook his head, ruffling his hair anxiously, trying to shake out the bad thoughts.

_No,_ he quickly rationalised._ It wasn't his fault. It was those stupid knights. With their comments about her… It was their fault, not his._

_How could they say such vile things about his Guinevere? How could they even _think_ such things about her?_

_They had no right._

It made the blood in his veins bubble and burn just thinking about it.

However, he was just about to turn around, go back to Camelot and apologise, explain his reasons, his anger, tiredness, frustration; when a rather large sack was tossed over him and something like a rock collided with his head, knocking him unconscious.


	3. The Vanishing Prince

**A/N: Something very important that I forgot to say last chapter: This is set sometime around the beginning of series 2 (although when I first posted this chapter, I actually said the end of series 1... errm... that will teach me to not really concentrate!) because Arthur and Gwen's relationship isn't sorted yet, Merlin and Arthur aren't yet the best of friends, they're all not as mature and settled into their 'destinies' as they will become but mostly because I wanted Merlin and Gwen to go and rescue Arthur, and if I'd set the story at the end of series 3, then Merlin would have gone and asked one of his knight-friends for help. If any of you don't think it's right then, that's just fine. It's not too important when it's set, it's just that that's how it works in my mind, but it's pretty arbitrary, make of it what you will. :) Sorry it took a while, but hey, I'm back on track with this story now! Doesn't that make you happy? :D Doesn't it just make you want to click that little 'review' button and make me happy too? ;) (Shameless, I know, but it was worth a shot...)**

"Now… Pass me the teleportation potion Strumpet."

Strumpet blinked. "The what?"

"The teleportation potion," Master snapped impatient fingers. "We do not have all day. Pass it to me!"

"Yes Master," Strumpet nodded his head and opened the travelling satchel. "Errm," Strumpet cleared his throat, frowned, fumbled.

_Where was that blasted teleportation potion?_

_Um…_

_Spare vials… 'The Curser's Handbook'… um… bundle of rats' tails… hobbits' toenails… half-eaten cheese sandwich… err… fake beard… ah… Strumpet's Diary… assorted herbs… druid's eyeballs… woolly hat… em… pixie dust… dash of snake brains… pots and pans… Alan, his trusty wooden spoon… errm… a jar of assorted feet… a very small, blunt knife…_

_DAMN AND BLAST!_

_WHERE WAS IT?_

Strumpet looked up nervously from his travelling satchel, the contents of which he had been pouring out over his feet, and tried to look adorable, in the hopes that Master would take pity on him, and decide to run him through later instead of now.

"Strumpet!" Master bellowed.

Strumpet said his prayers.

Master drew in a deep breath.

Strumpet could practically feel all of the freshness being sucked out of the air around him, leaving it cold and un-breathable.

Strumpet shivered.

Master frowned at Strumpet.

Strumpet stopped shivering; he had lived a weakling's life, he would not die a weakling's death.

"I said: pass the teleportation potion to me, Strumpet," Master commanded, in a deceptively controlled voice.

"I don't have it," Strumpet squeaked, his former resolve to be brave instantly broken.

"What do you mean '_you don't have it_'?"

Strumpet gulped. "I mean it's not in my satchel. I could have sworn I packed it in here earlier, it _was_ right next to the keys to the cave, but I can't find it now… err…"

Master massaged his temples, clamping his eyes shut and murmuring something about it being roughly a five day walk back to the cave. "Strumpet?"

"Yes, Master?"

"You are a fool."

"Yes, Master."

"Here, hold _this_ fool while _I_ sort out this mess," Master declared, shoving the unconscious Arthur, stuffed in a sack, into Strumpet's waiting arms.

"Do you at least have the masking draught?"

Strumpet paused, struggling to hold the rather heavy Crown Prince of Camelot. "Errm… Yes. Yes, I think so… It's in here; if I could just… if you could just… give me a… second… um… he's quite large…"

This was all Strumpet managed to say, before he slipped up on the grass (still dewy from last night's rain) and Arthur landed smack on top of him.

"Ouch!"

Master pointedly ignored his ignoramus of a sidekick.

Instead, he plucked the masking draught from amid the puddle of possessions at his feet, and promptly drank it.

For a second, absolutely nothing whatsoever happened.

Strumpet whimpered.

And then, the earth rumbled, ever so slightly.

Everything stilled.

The grass, the bushes, the flowers, the trees, the creatures; everything halted, and then seemed to creep towards Master, incredibly slowly, as if they were being hauled towards him, against their will.

They wilted and withered, drooping and fading, the colour and the energy slowly drifted through the thick ground and up Master's legs, into his shaking body, as he drew from their life forces.

He gasped.

His eyes flew open.

Gold.

And everything around him looked faded by comparison.

Master smirked to himself, nudging a patch of dead daisies with his black leather boot.

A dark, formidable figure, he cast an arm out towards Camelot, and muttered. Then, from his fingertips magic seemed to swirl and writhe, erasing the tracks he and Strumpet had made; forging a whole new set of footprints that plopped down in the mud, one in front of the other, leading in the opposite direction.

Master's smirk simply grew.

He rolled his eyes at Strumpet, picked up the Crown Prince of Camelot as though he weighed little more than an empty snail shell, and slung him - in a most undignified manner - over the back of a waiting horse.

"Get up, Strumpet. We have at least five days of walking ahead of us, thanks to your stupidity…"

Strumpet rubbed the back of his head, righted himself, and pootled along after Master's horse, reminding himself every third step he took of what a giant, forgetful oaf he was, and every fifth step of how lucky he was to still be alive.

**.**

Merlin collapsed down at Gaius' creaky table, looking very much the worse for wear.

He groaned feebly, smacked his head down into his hands, and mumbled something about no one understanding how difficult his life was.

Gaius raised an eyebrow.

"Have some soup."

Merlin lifted his head a fraction, letting just the tiniest sliver of light pierce the darkness of his vision. He reckoned it was symbolic: because he was miserable.

"I don't want soup."

"It will do you some good," Gaius reasoned. "There are lots of vegetables in it."

The old physician turned his back for just a second, intending to potter over and snatch his own bowl, and Merlin let his head fall back into his hands, deciding that his conversation with Gaius was over.

Then he changed his mind.

"I am miserable," he informed Gaius.

Gaius chuckled. "So I can see."

Merlin was not peeking, but he knew Gaius was now sitting down at the bench opposite him. He knew this not out of some kind of mentor-apprentice psychic link, but because the creaking of the old man's bones as he descended gave him away.

"Arthur is making my life impossible," Merlin declared.

"Is that so?" Gaius inquired, in a tone that suggested he had heard this many times before. Gaius resisted the temptation to point out to his young charge that, if his life were truly impossible, he could not be sitting in front of him now, refusing soup. He felt such an input would most probably not be appreciated.

"I have spent the entire day doing all of his chores…"

Gaius slurped some soup. "Forgive me for saying this, my boy, but you _are_ his servant. And I have seen many a master treat his servant worse."

"Oh, really? Have you? I'd like to meet him, and congratulate him. Being that much of a prat must take a great deal of effort."

"And really, Merlin, given the way you speak to him, I'm surprised you do not spend more of your free time in the stocks. I think he has a soft spot for you."

"That's nonsense."

Gaius slurped some more soup. "Fine, think what you will."

"I will."

A defiant silence hung between them then, punctuated only by Gaius' occasional exaggerated, drawn-out slurps.

"And I think you have a soft spot for him too."

Merlin's head shot up from his hands then, like a dozing cat prodded with a pin. "That is _absolute _nonsense. Arthur is _impossible_! Do you know what he accused me of today?"

_Slurp._

"He accused me of trying to flirt with Gwen? Isn't that completely ridiculous? I mean… Honestly! I wouldn't even know how to go about _flirting_, especially not with Gwen! She's my friend! I'd sooner flirt with you! Isn't it just the most ridiculous thing you've ever heard?"

_A pensive slurp._

"I think that might be a bit of a stretch, Merlin. I have heard many ridiculous things in my time and that does not come 'top of the list', as they say, by far. It might not be so ridiculous after all; she is a girl and you are a boy, and I do seem to remember you having kissed once before…"

Merlin's cheeks flushed a delightful shade of incriminating pink.

"Ah… Yes. I'd appreciate it if you didn't mention that to Arthur, actually…"

Merlin stood awkward, pink and gangly, and not quite sure what to do with himself.

Gaius slurped.

And then there was a knock on the door.

Sir Leon threw his head into the room, face concerned.

"It's the prince…"

They snapped to attention.

"…he appears to have been kidnapped. The King requests your presence immediately."

Sir Leon gestured for them to follow him into the hall, and Merlin turned to his mentor, the mood between them instantly altered.

"Go and see what you can do to help, Merlin."

A short, sharp, painful nod in response, and an almost smile; then he was gone.

Gaius didn't say '_I told you so_', because Merlin had always known he was right.

Of course he cared about what happened to the prat.

How could he not?


	4. Mission Highly Improbable

**A/N: Okay... You were all very polite with your objections to the timeline, but objections they were nonetheless! So I am going to set this at the end of series 2 instead, alrighty? You'll see why that _had_ to be next chapter. I hope you like this chapter (which has a slight nod to Ovid's Metamorphoses in it, I will be awfully impressed if anyone spots it) :) Also... Does anyone else find it worrying that we all seem to be developing an attachment to Strumpet, who is a baddie?**

"You will find my son immediately!"

"Sire, some knights have already been dispatched to follow the tracks..."

"_Some_ knights?"

Leon gulped, looking about him for support.

All of a sudden, everyone in the council chamber seemed to find their shoes incredibly fascinating.

"Well, yes, Sire… The patrol sent to the Western borders still has not returned…" Leon withered under Uther's increasingly intense glare. "They were acting under _your_ orders, Sire, if you remember…"

"Of course I remember! Do you think I am a fool?"

There then sat, squashed amongst the emergency meeting, a golden opportunity. It simply sat there, looking tempting and delicious, being so easy to make fun of, and yet so impossible at the same time. Like an itch you know you absolutely must not scratch, yet you can't help but _feel_ horribly itchy as you try to ignore it…

Merlin bit his tongue. Hard.

He said nothing, and just appreciated that all the thoughts of what he could have said did something to dispel the sense of panic just a little.

"How can I run a kingdom when I cannot assemble a decent rescue party for my son?" Uther's voice fractured a little on the word 'son', but everybody pretended it hadn't, for the sake of his pride. "Your knights will be dealt with and disciplined for their uselessness in a time of crisis!" Uther decreed. "I want _every _available man out on the hunt for my son."

He glared at Leon.

Leon nodded, accepting the command.

"I said _every_ man."

Leon tried to smile.

Uther glared some more.

"IMMEDIATELY!"

"Oh… umm… yes, Sire… yes… ah… um…" Leon scurried off, bowing and scraping and apologising.

Uther let out a surprisingly deep breath.

Merlin did not know Uther _was_ that deep.

Uther backed away a little, and the room was suddenly submerged in a warm surge of overwhelming relief, like dipping into the calming waters of a hot bath, the ripples of consolation eased through all assembled and soothed them.

"You."

Uther pointed, stepped back, frowned.

Merlin gulped.

He wanted to back away, as he felt everyone behind him had done; the attention of the King of Camelot was solely focused on the secret wizard.

"What do you know about Arthur's whereabouts?"

There was no spit in Merlin's mouth; it was as dry as the sun.

"Nothing," he whispered.

Uther considered this proposition for the longest moment of Merlin's life.

Then something in Uther Pendragon seemed to decide that it was quite funny.

"Why am I not surprised?" he asked, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes, and shoving the boy out of the meeting, which was serious, and needed to be conducted away from the village idiot. "Perhaps I ought to reconsider my stoning policy towards jesters, do you think?" he asked Geoffrey of Monmouth, as the door was shut firmly in Merlin's face.

**.**

Merlin felt the ground with his lanky fingers, watching the billowing red coats of Camelot galloping off in the distance.

_Could they not see the faint, golden aura that surrounded the markings?_

_Could they not hear the humming as magic resonated off them?_

_Could they not smell that crisp, clean scent of a freshly-cast spell?_

Clearly not.

"Knights are idiots," Merlin said to himself, with a shake of the head.

He readied himself by shaking out his body and his head, closed his eyes, stretched out his hand, and murmured the spell of revelation.

Merlin opened golden eyes, and he saw new, blue tracks traced out across the hills far in the distance to the North, just as the knights had ridden off to the South. They would surely never find Arthur.

He rolled his eyes and ran back to go and find Gaius, repeating to himself his new mantra: "Knights are idiots."

**.**

"You cannot possibly be going to rescue Arthur _alone_?"

Merlin ignored this, and continued attempting to cram his book of spells into his favourite bag, the leather of which was rapidly becoming undone at the seams.

"What if you do find who has kidnapped Arthur, what are you going to do about it?"

Merlin jostled his bag around, certain that if he could just get it at the right angle, everything would slot into place.

"You have no idea how many of them there are! How are you going to rescue him? With magic? What if Arthur sees? Have you thought any of this through at all?"

Merlin shoved at his book one last time, and his bag promptly exploded. "Rats!"

He tossed the lifeless fabric to the ground and stomped on it viciously. "Of course I've thought it through! What other option do I have?"

Gaius paused. "Have you tried writing to Lancelot for help?"

"I have no idea where he is and I need to go tonight!"

Gaius scrabbled for alternatives. "You could go to Uther, and…"

"And what? Tell him his knights are a bunch of morons following a fake trail, and that I'm his only hope of ever finding his son again?"

"Well… Yes…"

"Oh! What's that Uther?" Merlin cupped a melodramatic hand to his ear. "You want to know how I knew? Because I'M A SORCERER!"

"Sh! Must you be so loud? How you have managed to keep that head on your shoulders, it's a…"

"Wonder, I know. I'm sure Uther would love that. Probably throw a feast in my honour."

Gaius sat down. "I take your point, Merlin. I do not think there was any need to make it quite so _loudly_, or quite so _dramatically_, but I take it, nonetheless."

Merlin sighed, and turned back to his limp bag on the floor.

"There's no point taking that. You would never have fit the book in it anyway."

"Would so."

"Would not."

**.**

Merlin darted out of the castle in the slippery, deceptive blackness of the night, sticking to shadows and slithering through alcoves, adopting a stealth Arthur would never have believed him capable of.

With the looming darkness aiding his escape both by disguising him and increasing his courage, Merlin saddled his horse and drew a deep breath, finding himself surprised by the wish within his heart to have Arthur with him, as a companion on this trip.

He had always imagined that the relationship that had developed between him and the Prince had been forced by the circumstances, and that when they were required to talk on hunts or missions, it was always rather stilted.

He hadn't stopped and thought long or hard about it, but Gaius was right.

Merlin chuckled to himself, because Gaius was always right.

He supposed Arthur _was_ his friend.

Although, even if he wasn't, he'd probably have gone and rescued the prat anyway. Destiny and all that.

"Merlin?" inquired a little voice.

"Arrgh!" Merlin screamed, jumping nearly clean out of his skin in fright, and startling his poor horse, who then set about eyeing him suspiciously, waiting for him to scream again.

The little voice laughed; a tinkly, jingling, wind-chime little laugh, that ought to belong to a fairy or some sort of impossibly adorable talking woodland creature. "It _is_ Merlin," the little voice confirmed. "You can be so silly... It's only me, no one's scared of little old me."

Merlin grinned, his teeth bright in the blackness. "Gwen," he breathed. "What are you doing here?"

"Well I'm coming with you, of course," she told him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, even giggling a little at the end, as if _he_ was silly for not realising it sooner.

"Coming with me where?" he asked, really really hoping she wouldn't answer.

"To rescue Arthur of course. You didn't think I'd let you go alone?"

She began saddling the horse next to Merlin's.

"Do you think they'll mind me taking it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The horse. It seems awfully rude just to take it without asking. But then, I assume there is some perfectly good reason for us _not_ asking," Merlin could not see, but he knew she was looking at him expectantly, head slightly tilted, wide eyes even wider than normal as they questioned.

"There is," he murmured, disbelieving, not sure what else to say.

"Good," she mounted. "I still feel guilty. Are you going to get on that horse or not?"

"Err… I suppose," he did as he was bidden. "How did you know I would be here?"

"Please, Merlin. I knew you'd go after Arthur."

He felt her smile.

"Besides, you tripped up outside the forge on your way over? You woke me with your cursing."

Ah. Perhaps he had not been as stealthy as he would have liked.

They began to ride off, the gentle clip-clop of hooves and the murmur of quietness the only noises as each contemplated what to say to the other.

"I'm sorry," both blurted out at once.

Laughter.

"You first," they chorused.

More laughter.

"You first first," Gwen insisted, as their horses began the gentle slope curving up a path lit by blue that Merlin was now certain only he could see, as Gwen had made no comment on it.

"I'm sorry for how I spoke to you before. I shouldn't have been so rude…"

Gwen shook her head, and Merlin heard the light whooshing of air as her curls disagreed with him. "No, Merlin. I am not upset with _you_. You were having a very hard day; I don't think I was as understanding as I should have been."

"Are _you_ apologising to _me_?"

"Yes."

"You are too good for me, Gwen. You are too good for anybody. Especially Arthur."

Gwen did not contest this statement, which was very unlike her, and confirmed all of Merlin's suspicions.

When they finally did get around to rescuing Arthur from whatever near-death situation he had got himself into this time, it was going to be out of the frying pan and into the fire for the young Pendragon.


	5. Never Jab A Syringe In A Sleeping Dragon

**A/N: This based on an idea from fernazab, who wondered where Strumpet and Master might have got their dragon's blood from. They suggested a dragon blood drive. Hilarious as that was, this was what it led to instead. It's short but I hope you like it! Also, am dedicating the chapter to Paralelsky, for her dedication! (she knows what I'm talking about) Hope I surprised you :)**

From his perch coiled around a long-forgotten hill like a sun-dried lizard, the Great Dragon peeled back a sleepy eyelid to observe the starry, starry night-sky, painted blue and grey with great sweeping swirls that dashed above him in delicate patterns, spiralling into marvellous bursts of yellows and oranges.

He yawned.

Snapping a large, toothy jaw tightly shut in a display of disinterest, he blocked out the sky once more by closing his eyes and attempting to drift back off to sleep.

He had been having ever such a lovely dream.

It had involved him mauling the carcass of one Uther Pendragon, and rampaging around Camelot as it burned to the ground, with no 'last dragon lords' in sight to lecture him about _forgiving and forgetting_ or _being the bigger dragon_.

Kilgarrah began to snore ever so slightly.

And then he smelled it; the thick, pungent, cheesy stench of over-walked, under-washed and very heavily blistered feet, that could mean only one thing.

"Strumpet," Kilgarrah growled, rising to his feet and rocking the earth around him as he did so.

The Great Dragon sniffed the air slowly, eyes thin and vengeful as he narrowed down exactly the direction of the scent of that worthless, snivelling wretch and his pathetic excuse for an Elemental Master.

Subconsciously, he rubbed the angry, black scar that ran along the softer scales of his under-belly.

_No one stole the blood of The Last Dragon and lived to tell the tale._

Kilgarrah grinned wickedly to himself, having caught the sharp scent freshly carried across on the breezes.

_No one…_


	6. The Blind Leading The Blind

**A/N: Quick shout out to my unsigned reviewers, eFox and Ringo'simaginarycat (regular pals of mine) thank you both! eFox - thanks! I'm glad you think that, I'm careful with the words I use and yes, galumphing is a funny word... and Ringo's: that is incredibly sweet of you and it actually made my day! Hope this chapter makes you all giggle...**

"I call to order this seventy-seven-hundred-and-seventh secession of the Clan of The Eyeless Druids."

A ripple of disagreement spread throughout the assembled druids.

The Druid Elder sighed. "What is it?"

"Well… It's just… I thought it was the seventy-seven-hundred-and-seventh secession _next_ Saturday."

"No," snapped the Druid Elder irritably. "That would make today the seventy-seven-hundred-and-sixth secession, I'm sure. That's why this one is the seventy-seven-hundred-and-seventh secession. Are you questioning my ability to count?"

There was a murmur of slightly louder disagreement.

The Druid Elder clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Fine, fine. You don't trust me? We'll check the records! All in favour of checking the records say 'aye'."

There was a general rumble of "Ayes."

Someone muttered: "Eye? That's just childish."

"Check the records!" declared the Druid Elder.

Nothing happened.

"I said: Check the records! Why isn't anybody doing anything? I don't _hear_ anything happening! Is anything happening?"

Everybody looked about them - pointless though this might have been - to check if this was the case.

"I don't think anything is happening," someone ventured eventually.

"Whose job is it to check the records? Where's the record-checker?" the Druid Elder bellowed.

No one responded.

"Isn't the record-checker supposed to wear a badge?" (A rhetorical question from the Druid Elder here, because, of course, being a responsible Druid Elder, he knew that the record-checker was supposed to be wearing a badge.)

Everyone felt the person next to them, to check if they were or weren't wearing a badge.

"It's me!" someone declared suddenly. "I'm the record-checker!"

"Of course," agreed his wife. "He's very forgetful…"

"Well!" exclaimed the Druid Elder. "Go and check the records, then! Is this the seventy-seven-hundred-and-seventh secession or the seventy-seven-hundred-and-sixth secession?"

The record-checker bustled off to go and to as he was told.

There was a moment of talking-amongst-themselves.

"Of course," announced the Druid Elder. "I know which it is. I'm only doing this to please you."

"Dollop head," muttered one of the other druids, in falsetto, so he wouldn't recognise their voice.

"Who said that?" demanded the Druid Elder.

The other druids giggled.

The record-checker bustled back.

"Well?" the Druid Elder wanted to put all the other druids in their place.

The record-checker cleared his throat. "It turns out, Druid Elder, that I can't actually read the records."

Everybody groaned.

"But, if it helps, I'm actually pretty confident that it's the seventy-seven-hundred-and-second secession."

Everybody groaned some more.

"I can try and feel how many marks there are, if you like?" offered the record-checker.

"No thank you," murmured the Druid Elder. "Why don't you pass those records back to the record-maker. I don't suppose the record-maker has any idea if it's the seventy-seven-hundred-and-seventh secession or the seventy-seven-hundred-and-sixth secession?"

"Or the seventy-seven-hundred-and-second secession," added the record-checker helpfully.

"No," the record-maker informed them, sounding rather affronted. "I only make the records. It's not my job to check them."

The Druid Elder banged something on something in an attempt to gather everyone's attention. "Alright," he insisted, taking a deep breath. "I call to order this seventy-seven-hundred-and-seventh secession of the Clan of The Eyeless Druids."

"Why do we have to call ourselves the Clan of The Eyeless Druids anyway?" asked Tim, who had been quiet up until now.

"I'm sorry?" the Druid Elder mumbled, through gritted teeth.

"I just think it's daft to have it in the name that we're eyeless. It's like announcing to people what our biggest weakness is right off the bat. It just strikes me as not being a particularly good idea, is all…"

Everyone else began to agree with this.

The Druid Elder started humming.

"Hey Druids!" yelled the lookout, who had presumably suddenly come in from where they had been looking-out. "We've found them."

"Found who?" inquired the Druid Elder, on the verge of tears.

"Master and Strumpet! We've found them! They're not far off! We think we could catch them!"

The Druid Elder liked this news. He didn't feel like crying anymore. "Pack the bags! The Eyeless Druids have a score to settle…"


	7. Coming To Grief

**A/N: We are slowly getting back to the actual summary now :) Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. It makes me smile.**

THUMP… THUMP… THUMP…

That was the first thing Arthur Pendragon heard when he regained consciousness.

THUMP… THUMP… THUMP…

When he strained to hear, to try and work out just exactly what this _thumping_ was, he realised he could hear another noise. It was an irritating, high-pitched, nasal, squeaking sound, like someone had trodden on the tail of an extremely indignant mouse.

The nasal whining was continuing irregularly alongside the thumping, and it was one of the most fantastically irritating noises Arthur had ever heard in his life. It scratched at every corner of his consciousness; now he had heard it, he couldn't un-hear it: it was everywhere.

So now what he could hear was:

THUMP… THUMP…_ horribly irritating nasal whining_… THUMP…

Arthur rolled his eyes. Or at least, he thought he did. He felt like he did. He sent the command to his brain to commence eye-rolling, and his eyes did something in their sockets that seemed distinctly like rolling, but wherever his head had found itself was pitch black, so he couldn't be quite sure whether he had achieved his goal or not.

There was also the distinct stench of rotten something-or-other that had not been effectively scrubbed out of the course, scratchy fabric his head was apparently encased in. That was none too pleasant.

Since he obviously couldn't ascertain anything useful through sight or smell, he decided to return his main focus to listening. Preferably beyond the horribly irritating nasal whining that made him want to pummel its source into the ground.

Beyond the thumping and the whining there was a light, rustling - of cloaks, perhaps? - a heavy, swampy, shuffling of footsteps, a plopping sound coming from directly beneath him that sounded quite like horses' hooves struggling through thick mud, and then, in the distance, was the twinkling chime of birdsong.

He strained to hear a little better.

They sounded like blue tits.

Arthur relaxed.

He recognised this.

He felt the body of the unfamiliar horse beneath him with hands that had been crudely bound together with rough rope.

He definitely recognised this.

He had been kidnapped.

Again.

"_Oh," _he thought, with a sigh of relief. _"Phew. Is that all it is? The knights should be here any minute…"_

He began to hum gently to himself, and started thinking of all of the different ways he could try to apologise to Guinevere, to get her to understand that, in reality, the whole thing was all Merlin's fault…

**.**

Strumpet shot the body slumped over the back of his horse another wary glance. "Master?"

"Yes, Strumpet?"

"Master… I think he's awake…"

Master didn't pull on the reins of his horse, or turn around or do anything at all to suggest he was perturbed in the slightest by this information. He simply passed Strumpet a large club from who-knows-where under his great, swooshing black cloak.

"You know what you have to do," Master told Strumpet.

Strumpet gulped. He took hold of the club, raised it above the head of the prince, and brought it cracking down.

The body that had previously been tense against the back of the mangy horse, as it observed the discourse between the strangers, slumped.

Strumpet sighed, passed the club back to Master's waiting hand and retrieved an apple from his travelling satchel.

As he began to munch on his fruit, Strumpet considered that he had had to do many nasty things - such as clubbing noble princes about the head - in his line of work. His mother would have been so ashamed of him…

**.**

Arthur regained consciousness again.

There was that familiar, all-consuming darkness; the horrible stench of something going off; the scratching of hard, itchy fabric smushed up against his face and, of course:

THUMP… THUMP… THUMP… THUMP… THUMP… _horribly irritating nasal whining_… THUMP… THUMP… THUMP… _horribly irritating nasal whining_… THUMP… THUMP… THUMP…

And chittering chattering birdsong, just to top it all off.

Arthur growled.

He was getting a serious migraine.

**.**

Strumpet frowned.

_He didn't like that._

Strumpet stopped walking.

_He didn't like that at all._

Strumpet's horse walked into the back of Strumpet and sent him flying into a murky puddle.

"Master?" asked Strumpet, spitting bits of dirt out of his mouth as he righted himself.

"What is it, Strumpet?"

"Can you hear that noise?"

"What noise?"

Strumpet frowned some more. He supposed that answered that question.

The noise got louder.

"_That_ noise, Master. Can't you hear it?"

Master ignored Strumpet, and simply kept riding on.

"Mas_ter_?" whined Strumpet.

Master paused and drew in a deep, what some might call yoga-breath. "Yes, Strumpet?"

"Are you sure you can't hear that noise?"

Master stopped his horse.

He listened.

He could, of course, hear the noise.

It was a very loud noise.

He had been hearing it for far longer than Strumpet had, he had simply been choosing to ignore it.

"No," Master concluded, beginning to move on again. "I can't hear a thing."

The roaring, sweeping, gliding noise that had been tracking them for quite some time now seemed to get louder after Master said this, as though it was insulted by the statement. If noises can be insulted, this one most certainly was; it had an air of sheer indignation about it.

Strumpet would not be deterred.

"Do you know what I think it sounds like?" he asked Master, not looking where he was going on the grass and slipping a little in his slightly oversized boots, causing the horse behind him to snicker at his expense.

Master did not respond.

"I think it sounds like wings flapping. You know…" Strumpet demonstrated for Master exactly what _'wings flapping'_ would look like. He spread his arms wide on either side, fixed a look of sheer concentration on his face, bent his legs slightly at the knee and proceeded to dance around strangely, wafting his hands about in the air like a maniac as he made some peculiar noises.

Master shifted incredulously on his saddle, the expression on his evil face unreadable.

Strumpet finished his interpretive dance by spinning around and smacking their hostage, who had apparently regained consciousness once again - if his cry of _"Ow! What the…!" _was anything to go by - and looking more than a little sheepish.

"Strumpet?" Master muttered, in his gruff voice, after an uncomfortable, drawn-out pause.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

**.**

"Err… hello."

Once the sack was yanked rather unceremoniously off Arthur's head - no doubt leaving some nasty scratches - the sounds of the outside world were no longer quite so muffled, and that horribly irritating nasal whining dropped a couple of octaves. It was someone's horribly irritating voice.

"Grr."

Someone who appeared now to be trying to _growl_ at Arthur.

Arthur was not impressed.

Strumpet gave up on the scary grimace he had put on in an attempt to scare the prince and sighed. "No one finds me scary," he mumbled sorrowfully to himself as he started trying - and failing - to light a fire.

"Why am I not surprised?" Arthur eyed his short, dumpy, potato-like kidnapper with disbelief. It was just his luck… Of all the people in the world to have kidnapped him, it would have to be someone even more incompetent than _Mer_lin.

"Ooh! Youch!" Strumpet exclaimed, as the flame he had finally managed to ignite stung his fingers.

Arthur banged his head against the horse.

The knights had better not take much longer…


	8. Liar Liar! Face on Fire

**A/N: Yes... I know it's been a long time, but look, here is a chapter for you. Yes - YOU. Now, I'm going away for a little while in a few days so it'll be another wait for the next chapter... However, I guess you're accustomed to that by now! Sorry :P Thanks so much to everyone who takes the time to review (you know I review reply as well, but it might be a little while before I get to do that) it really makes me smile. :) See? Oh, and "Baerne" means "Burn". That's quite important ;)**

Merlin rubbed the stick against the stone for what he vowed would be the last time. It was stupidly cold, dark and damp; the wind was chuckling all around him; the darkening sky was closing in and he never had been any good at lighting fires.

Gwen looked hopefully up at him with her trusting brown eyes.

"Do you want me to try, Merlin?" she asked tactfully, careful not to bruise his delicate ego.

Merlin scowled like a small child and tucked his arms under his cloak. "No. I can do it. Could you just… err… Go and gather some more kindling?"

Gwen looked curiously at him, a jolt of amusement lighting up her eyes like fire, but she didn't bother questioning him. She was probably finding the whole thing far too sweet for it to be worth challenging his already fairly fragile authority.

Gwen hummed a lovely little tune that made not only Merlin, but just about every other forest creature within a five mile radius incredibly sleepy, and skipped off to go and amass some more wood for their already ridiculously large pile that was now only in need of an effigy.

Merlin drew in a deep breath and outstretched a hand in as dramatic a manner as he could muster: "Bae-"

"Merlin!"

"What?"

Gwen reappeared at his side with a large pile of wood. She dropped it in front of his hand, which was hovering in the air for some reason she couldn't fathom, and smiled brightly at him.

Merlin blinked. "How did you manage to gather so much wood so quickly?"

"I'm a blacksmith's daughter, remember?"

Merlin frowned. Blacksmith's daughters hadn't been able to do _that_ in Ealdor.

"Right," Merlin replied, trying to smile. "Do you think you could… um… go and find me a new stone? I think this one might actually be a snail."

Gwen gave Merlin the kind of look he was used to getting from her whenever he said something to get rid of her, the kind of look that she was used to giving him whenever he said something to get rid of her, and she walked off obligingly to go and find said stone.

Merlin sighed, loosened up his shoulders and tried again.

"Baer-"

"Merlin!"

"What?"

Gwen bounced back into view with a whole handful of suitable stones, once again puzzled as to why he was sticking his hand out with an angry look on his face.

"I found you some stones… Like you asked?"

"But… But you were hardly gone any time at all!"

"Come on, Merlin! I'm a blacksmith's daughter."

Merlin smiled goofily back at her, but in his head he was screaming. Did blacksmith's daughters have superpowers or something?

He would try this once more. "Gwen, do you think you could look through the supplies and find us some food? When I've started this fire we'll want to get cooking."

Gwen nodded obligingly, although she did think he was being a bit optimistic about his fire-starting abilities.

Merlin grinned at the sounds of Gwen, who was now a fair distance behind him, thoroughly unpacking the bags. They had brought enough supplies with them for quite a substantial trip and it should take her ages to sort through them all.

He put out his hand, let the magic flow comfortably through him and prepared to try again.

"Baern-"

"Merlin!"

"E!" growled Merlin in frustration, hitting himself in the forehead with the hand he had previously been trying to create fire with and accidentally setting fire to himself. "Ouch!" he screeched, turning away from Gwen's line of view as he blew upwards on his fringe and tried to cool the flame with his hand.

Once it was extinguished, he turned back to an extremely unconcerned Gwen, who was now sitting comfortably by the - still unlit - campfire with a pile of food at her side, next to the pile of stones and logs.

"I know, I know…" Merlin muttered, waving away her explanations as he sat down, much to Gwen's confusion. "You're a blacksmith's daughter."

"Um… No, actually. I was just going to say that I took the food from right out of the top of the satchel. Are you feeling alright?" she asked, reaching out to touch his face with the back of her hand. "Your forehead feels like it's on fire."

Merlin scowled. "I'm fine."

Gwen smiled sympathetically at him, eyeing the stone and stick he was still clutching pathetically in his hands. "Are you sure you don't want me to try?"

"I… Oh! Look! What's that?" Merlin yelled suddenly, pointing into a tree.

"What? Where?" Gwen turned to follow the direction of Merlin's arm.

Merlin quickly shot a hand out towards the fire and mumbled "Baerne," under his breath.

Gwen frowned into the distance. "I don't see anything," she muttered, and spun slowly back to face Merlin sitting smugly in front of a roaring fire, his hands crossed behind his head and his legs stretched out lazily in front of him.

"It looks like I didn't need your help after all," Merlin said, after Gwen's long, stunned pause.

Gwen turned to look at their empty campsite with a sly grin. "That's great, Merlin. Now… Where are we going to sleep?"


	9. In Which Nothing Significant Happens

**A/N: Hehe... *scratches back of neck awkwardly* Hi there. Long time no see. That would be my fault. Sorry about that. *gulps* Don't hate me :) I has chapter for you!**

"You know, I never really wanted to be an evil villain's sidekick," Strumpet observed casually as he strolled alongside Arthur's horse, making sure the prince was tied nice and tightly to the back of it.

"Really?" Arthur muttered, not in the least bit interested in the response, instead trying to take in the environment around him and plot some sort of escape route in spite of the fact that his hands were bound and his captor appeared to be incredibly powerful.

"I always fancied being a cart-puller, myself. My mother always said I had the arms for it."

No, not that captor. The other one. The big, tall, scary-looking one on the horse in front with the pointy boots and the cape and the hooked nose who seemed as if he could very possibly have eyes in the back of his head.

"But then, when I was, ooh, let me think, I wasn't very old, a little lad, can't have been more than twelve, I think, some real nasty men came pillaging our village and said we could join them or die. So, of course, I joined."

"I'd rather die," Arthur declared haughtily, sticking his head up in as proud a manner as is possible when it's bound to a horse.

"Well then, you wouldn't have lived long."

"Better to live a short, honest life than a long, devious one."

Strumpet frowned and considered this, scuffing the leather of his well-worn shoes into the muddy path as he did so. "Meh. You have your opinion, I have mine. Shall we leave it at that? Apple?" he reached into his bag an offered an apple to the prince.

"No we shall _not_ 'leave it at that', you wretch!" Arthur shrieked indignantly, his shriek somewhat muffled by the horse's mane, but still causing Strumpet to jump in alarm. "You have to see that _you_ are wrong and _I_ am right! You're the one who kidnapped me!"

Strumpet shrugged. "I think morality's a little more relative than that, Arthur."

Prince Arthur Pendragon didn't know what to object to first: the buffoon's use of apparently appropriate intelligent vocabulary or his addressing him by his first name.

"Or that's what a man I met in a tavern told me, anyway. Do you want the apple or not?"

Arthur inspected the apple. "Why are you feeding me?"

"Master told me to. I'm supposed to keep you fit and healthy until we get you back to the cave and then we can boil you up and put you in the potion."

"Boil me up?" Arthur squeaked, and Arthur very rarely squeaked. "You're going to _eat_ me?"

"Oh no, _I'm_ not going to eat you. I never get to eat the proper food," Strumpet grumbled, frowning down at his feet. "It's only ever scraps off the table and leftover bits of ingredients for Strumpet. It's a wonder I'm still alive and healthy." He tapped his protruding, wobbly stomach as apparent evidence of this and Arthur raised an eyebrow in disbelief.

"Well that's truly terrible but I think my problem is a little worse than yours. You claim to be undernourished, and I'm about to be eaten!"

Strumpet scowled at Arthur and plodded off, muttering under his breath about how royalty always thought their problems were bigger than everybody else's.

Arthur tried desperately to wriggle off his horse for the umpteenth time that day, to no avail. He really, really hoped the knights were close, because he did _not_ fancy being eaten.

**.**

Sir Robin dismounted in disbelief as the tracks they were following stopped abruptly upon reaching a large, grey rock.

"Sir Ethan!" he hollered, trying to get the attention of the rider a little way behind him, who was happily clip-clopping along through treacherous enemy territory in his bright red cloak. "The tracks just stop! What now?"

Sir Ethan drew to a halt next to him and frowned, and several other knights (whose names I shan't bother to mention, because they shall only die soon and naming them is a great deal of effort) stopped beside him, appearing equally bemused and useless. "No they don't."

"What do you mean, '_No they don't'_," asked Sir Robin, looking impatient, and wearing his _'If I had my lance in my hand I'd wallop you over the head with it, you prat'_ face.

"The tracks," Sir Ethan explained patiently. "They don't stop." He pointed at the vertical surface of the rock with a bemused expression on his face, where the tracks did indeed continue.

"How could anybody walk up the side of a rock?" asked Sir Robin, tentatively touching the footprints over his head.

"The same kind of person who leaves footprints in rock," Sir Ethan answered gravely. "Someone who uses magic."

All the knights shared a very solemn silence, before setting about forming a group huddle, trying to decide what to do about the situation and eventually deciding to clamber up on one another's backs and try to climb on top of the rock.

It was quite the feat, involving much ramming of feet into one another's faces and sticking of fingers into each other's ears. Not pretty. Several knights even got their cloaks in a twist. When they reached the top, had all helped each other up and dusted themselves off, they really wished they hadn't.

The giant, flesh-eating monster that had been napping happily at the top of the rock, not disturbing anybody, stirred.

"Nom nom nom," it thought. "Meals on wheels."

Sir Robin and Sir Ethan quickly fell back down the side of the rock, hearing the screams of their comrades quickly fading into satisfied crunching sounds behind them. They declared the journey ahead _'too perilous'_ and turned back to Camelot to re-group and come up with a new plan.

Sir Leon came through the trees behind them, fastening his trousers.

"Everything alright, men?"

Sir Robin and Sir Ethan stopped riding away, and looked ashamed of themselves.

"Men?" repeated Sir Leon, looking baffled. "Where are the rest of the knights?"

"Err…" Ethan coughed.

A person's jaw bone was spat down from on top of the rock hanging over their heads.

"Does that answer your question?" asked Sir Robin, eyeing the jaw bone with a queasy look on his face.

**.**

"_Strumpet!"_

Merlin tensed.

"_Ssssstruuummmmpet!"_

Merlin winced and snapped his knuckles in that way Hunith was always telling him not to.

"_STRUMPET! YOU CANNOT ESCAPE ME!"_

"Merlin? Are you alright? Merlin?" Gwen reached out to her friend, who was currently clutching at his forehead in what would have been a poor imitation of Harry Potter, if Harry Potter hadn't been copyrighted.

"Ah!" Merlin yelped. "Kilgharrah! It's Kilgharrah! I can hear him! He's close! Gaius! Gaius - get my blanket!"

Gwen slapped Merlin across the face (not too hard, mind you. She didn't have much practice at slapping people, and wouldn't have wanted to slap him hard anyway) "Merlin! Snap out of it!"

"Wh-what?" Merlin opened his eyes dazedly, and stared at Gwen in a quaintly bemused fashion. "Where's Gaius? Where's my blanket?"

Gwen chose to follow the excellent advice her father had given her: answer questions you don't want to answer with more questions. "Who is Kilgharrah, Merlin? I've never heard of him. And why is he close?"

"Uh… There is no Kilgharrah."

Gwen smiled knowingly. "I think you're a little old for imaginary friends, Merlin. And comfort blankets."

Merlin opened his mouth to defend himself, but she shushed him.

"It's okay Merlin, I won't tell Arthur."

Merlin supposed that was alright, then.

She patted him on the shoulder and they shared a friendly moment. "Right… Which way, then, Merlin?"

He stared at the glaringly obvious magical glow pointing up the hill (that she clearly couldn't see) and took her hand. "This way."

"I don't mean to be rude, Merlin," Gwen began, as she followed him, "but how do you know this?"

"Oh…" he waved a hand in the air nonchalantly. "I spend so much time tracking things with Arthur, I suppose I've got rather good at it."

Gwen raised an eyebrow at him, but said nothing more.

**.**

Kilgharrah swept through the sky, putting no end of majestic birds of prey to shame. In fact, they were sitting in their nests and on top of hedgerows, munching on voles, and looking seriously put out.

"Who is this guy anyway?" they were chirping sullenly to themselves.

"Just a big, scaly show-off," decided the vultures, determined to think no more about it, and not let it bruise their egos.

The Great Dragon was unaware of this, and wouldn't have cared if he was aware of it. He was focused on only one thing: finding Strumpet. And then spit-roasting him. Not far away in the distance he could sniff the Young Warlock, and he knew the irritating little whippersnapper was reading his mind, but there wasn't much to be done about that, unless he ate him. And that just didn't seem cool. After all, last dragons and last Dragon Lords probably ought to stick by each other.

There were no such restraints keeping him from mauling that horrible little rat, Strumpet, and Strumpet had seriously offended Kilgharrah.

The time had come for him to pay for his crimes. And he might just scoff that Master of his, too. He was a right git, in Kilgharrah's distinguished opinion.

He was getting closer, he could tell by the unbearable stench.

There was no way they'd be prepared for him.

Kilgharrah glanced down at the ground, and was mildly confused at seeing a large gathering of druids falling over each other. But he didn't really care enough to investigate.

**.**

"I say it's this way!"

"And I'm certain they went this way!"

"No, no: they definitely went this way!"

"And what way would that be?"

The direction-chooser stopped to consider this. "I'm not entirely sure. The way I'm pointing."

The druid elder groaned. "And what way would that be?"

"I haven't the first clue."

"Well I think it's this way!" insisted the tracker. "After all, I am supposed to be the tracker."

"Well, have you found any tracks?" demanded the druid elder.

"I don't know… It does smell pretty awful, doesn't it?"

They all appeared to be in agreement about this, and were also generally surprised at how few of them there were. Clearly some of them had got lost along the way (not that that was particularly unusual, but still).

"Then that will be Strumpet!" concluded the sniffer. "He never bathes."

"Ah… yes," the druid elder was pretty sure he was grinning evilly. "Follow that stench!"

"Do we have to?" asked Tim, who was holding his nose (or at least he thought it was him holding his nose, you can never be quite sure about these things).

"Yes, if we wish to have our revenge, then we must! Onward, eyeless druids! Let us get Strumpet!"

They all chanted heartily and promptly wandered off in different directions.


End file.
